


it's just you and the moon on my skin

by mapped



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Anal Sex, Angst, Knotting, M/M, Vampire!Silver, Vampires, Werewolf Sex, Werewolf!Flint, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-23
Updated: 2017-09-23
Packaged: 2019-01-04 06:48:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12163644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mapped/pseuds/mapped
Summary: Silver is a useless vampire, Flint is a terrifying werewolf, and together they just about make it through the first three seasons of Black Sails.Inspired by samhound'sawesome, awesome art.





	it's just you and the moon on my skin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SAMH0UND](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SAMH0UND/gifts).



> **Warning** : This fic contains a scene where Flint, a werewolf, fucks Silver, a vampire, while Flint is in wolf form. Please turn back now if that's not your kinda thing!
> 
> ... ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

I.

“You ask me what I think about the captain? Let me tell ya, there’s nothing natural about him. He moves too strange for a human. I think he’s undead. Walking around without a soul. It ain’t right.”

Silver very nearly splutters when he hears this, but he keeps his face straight. “I’m intrigued,” he says to his crewmate, lacing his voice with the same dark wine as he does when he’s cornering his next meal. “Go on.”

“He’s got this witch inland who gives him his powers. Kills squealing babies for him and pours their blood over him, to ward his death away with their deaths.”

Silver nods. He’s never tasted the blood of an infant. He would never. There are things even he wouldn’t do. But the vision of Captain Flint awash in blood—hot, fresh, _scarlet_ blood—well, he keeps it in his head for a little too long. It feels comfortable there, like it wants to settle in amongst his memories and dreams and hungers.

He could laugh at how wrong Turk is getting things, but he says, sympathetically, “I can imagine why you wouldn’t want to follow a man like that.”

“Mr Morley don’t agree with me though,” Turk says, shaking his head. “He says Flint’s a wolf. Says he saw the captain go into a room once and he peered in, and all there was was an animal. A great ravening beast.” 

Shit. Silver closes his eyes. Mr Morley isn’t wrong.

II.

He watched the page burn, blacken and crumble into the flames, and he ran.

The darkness is usually no obstacle for him, but clambering up and down an unfamiliar jagged landscape was challenging nonetheless. He kept turning to see where his pursuers were. He saw the bo’sun, tall as a column rising into the sky. He saw the captain, leaping onto a high rock in his long fluttering coat, still some distance away.

He thought he was safe. The night was _his_ , after all.

A wall slammed into his side and he fell, his back hitting the floor and a suffocating weight pushing him down. He blinked: the darkness had given way to something consuming, something whole, covering him completely. He could only feel _fur_ in his face, and then the creature shifted, and he saw that the fur was russet, and he saw the creature’s eyes. Green like the wicked, seething potion in a witch’s cauldron. Green and sharper even than the claws he could now feel against his throat.

He saw, too, the muzzle, the teeth, white as the moon.

He felt, more than heard, the growl of a voice, deep as an earthquake against his body: “Where’s the page?”

He bared his own mouth, showed his fangs. “You’re looking at it.” His own voice came from low within him, from the abyss of his belly. He had been a monster for so long, but he had never felt this wild, had never felt like there were snakes crawling up through his throat that he could spit into the world.

Those poison-green eyes flashed, as if recognising their kindred, and the weight upon him lessened, just perceptibly. “I knew you _smelled_ wrong,” Flint’s voice rumbled, and his damp nose grazed Silver’s forehead.

As it turns out, the night isn’t just his alone.

III.

It makes sense, in retrospect. When Flint had been lunging around the deck of the _Walrus_ duelling Singleton, when he’d punched Singleton until Singleton’s skull was mashed into the wood below, Silver had noticed details he’d tried to dismiss. The way Flint’s hair seemed to change texture as it escaped its tie, bristling and growing coarser, brighter. The way Flint, at the end, crouching over over Singleton and swinging his fist down again and again, had seemed giant, hulking, his back so much broader than it had been a moment ago.

Those details were easy to dismiss, because the scent of Singleton’s blood had bloomed into the air, vicious and sickly and blinding. It was smell and sight and sound all at once, that blood, like a thundering cloud overhead that Silver could see and hear.

And Flint had stood up and turned, and he had looked normal. As close to human as you could possibly expect someone who had just beaten another human being to pulp to look.

Or perhaps Silver had been too busy staring at the blood around Flint’s mouth, in Flint’s beard, dripping down Flint’s neck.

IV.

He opens the door to the captain’s cabin to find Flint on the floor, Gates’ body in his arms. He doesn’t smell any blood.

“Captain?” he asks, and Flint looks up at him with watery eyes, lost eyes. Green like the sea in the pale morning, something entirely natural.

“I killed him,” Flint says. “I killed him and I wasn’t even— I didn’t turn into a wolf. I just killed him. I just held his head in my hands and I…” He drifts, his eyes unfocusing.

Silver is glad there’s no blood, because he can remain calm and act with care. But even so, the sight of Flint’s weak green eyes sinks into him, deeper than the smell of crimson ever could.

Later, amid cannon-fire and screams and blood everywhere, Silver dives into the sea and wraps his arms around Flint and kicks at the water. Flint is _so_ heavy, heavy as if even in human form, even unconscious, the wolf in him is straining to get out, to burst out of him. As if he is not just human or wolf, but always both.

Silver hates the feeling of being submerged in water—it makes him feel even colder than he already does perpetually. But with Flint’s weight trying to drown them both, he can’t think about how cold he is. He makes it to the shore, and he sits there breathing, shivering. Then he eyes the hole in Flint’s shoulder. The sea has washed away the smell of blood for now. He rips the collar of Flint’s shirt open a little wider.

Freckles. A wheat field of them. The bullet wound in Flint’s shoulder is neat, and bleeding. Silver reels back, and has to sit still again, breathing. Getting used to the curious tang of Flint’s blood. Around them there are other men climbing onto the shore. Some of them are injured, Silver sees.

He only smells Flint’s blood.

It smells like wet, black ink. He’s heard people claim that you can tell if somebody’s a werewolf by cutting their skin and seeing if there’s fur in the wound. There’s no fur in Flint’s wound, but if the blood of all werewolves smelled like this, Silver thinks he could probably identify them easily.

Stories are always such bullshit, aren’t they?

A corpse floats near the beach, and Silver tears off a piece of the dead man’s shirt to patch Flint’s wound. He lets his fingertips linger over Flint’s collarbone.

His stomach hurts with hunger.

V.

The Spanish have tied them to chairs; too many men surrounded Flint for him to risk doing anything, Silver understands, but now there are only three men in a room with them. Silver glances sideways at Flint, who looks too exhausted to bother anymore, so he tries to aggravate Flint by playing the traitor, but before Flint can transform—and he’s close, Silver can tell—a Spaniard hits him over the head and dazes him; his skin trembles, halting before it can ripple into fur.

Silver is released, and he pretends to go, before sneaking up behind one of the Spaniards and knocking him out with a pan. He expects Flint to turn wolf and come to his aid, but Flint doesn’t.

Silver panicks, grabbing the dead man’s pistol and babbling, and Flint just rolls his eyes and retorts through gritted teeth.

“So I actually have to fight him?” Silver asks, dismayed.

“You’re a fucking vampire!” Flint shouts. “How are you this useless!”

Flint blurs and blossoms like a fireball, exploding out of his chair in a burst of fur. The two Spaniards still standing boggle in confusion, too startled to do anything; they don’t get to remain standing for much longer, because Flint pounces on them in quick succession, a blazing whip of brilliance, snarling and swiping his claws. The Spaniards fall as if toppled by a gust of wind. They lie there, hoarsely wheezing, just this edge of alive, their clothes shredded, their blood oozing and thick, horror distorting their faces.

Silver’s head is spinning from the smell of those lives draining away, but he looks at Flint, not at the pair of bleeding Spaniards. It’s the first time Silver has seen the wolf clearly. Flint is on all fours, hackles raised, his snout twitching towards Silver. He’s massive, his shoulders nearly twice the span of Silver’s, and he’s carved with scars. His fur is bright, bright. Beneath his muzzle and all down his underbelly it’s the buttery cream of the horizon at dawn. On his cheeks and on his powerful limbs, it’s sweet as oranges. In the centre of his face and along his back it’s richer, like rum, and there are darker splotches all over it like burnt sugar.

His freckles, Silver realises.

And of course, there are his eyes: the screaming green of them.

His bushy red tail swishes slowly from side to side as he regards Silver. Werewolves aren’t supposed to have tails, either. Again: stories are bullshit.

“Go on,” Flint says, his voice a smooth mudslide. “I saved them for you.”

Silver doesn’t think about how it’s not quite the same when Flint isn’t pressed up against him, when he can’t feel Flint’s wolf voice vibrating right through his own ribcage. “One is enough, thanks.”

Flint laughs an avalanche, and lazily, lazily, he chews into a neck and throws his head back, and the unfortunate man stops breathing.

Silver gets on his knees and buries his fangs in the other man’s throat. It doesn’t taste as good as he wants it to. He’s still thinking about the almost elegant scent of Flint’s inky blood, and he can feel the weight of Flint’s gaze slithering on his skin as he drinks.

When he looks up with blood running down his chin, Flint is human again, and still avidly watching him.

VI.

He died when he was a boy of twelve or thirteen. When he came back to life and found no food satisfied him, found his jaw ached and his mouth watered when people bled around him, fangs springing into appearance out of nowhere and digging uncomfortably into his lips, he was just old enough to understand it. He wondered if he could possibly die again, or if undead meant _permanently_ undead.

He continued to wonder, even as the years passed, and his body grew with time, which he didn’t think happened in the stories. He still wonders, but he’s never really wanted to find out.

But he might just find out now. The axe swoops down again, crunching into his leg. He cries and cries and cries. If he was a wolf too, he might howl loud enough for Flint to hear him across the water. He might transform, and get free. But he’s not a wolf, and he’s being held down, and the smell of his own blood scrapes through his stomach like a rusty blade. If he was really, truly undead, how could he hurt like this? Bleed like this?

He’s going to fucking die again. The thought wails through him, the only thing left apart from the pain. He’s going to fucking die again, and he can’t do anything about it. He can’t do _anything_.

The axe comes down once more, and even that thought goes, too.

VII.

He’s so cold. He’s always cold, but he’s never been this cold in his life. Flint brings him a whole flask of warm blood in the dead of night when they make port at Tortuga, but it doesn’t help at all. He pulls the blanket up over his head and weeps. He’s a small boy lying numb on a stone floor, so cold he is beyond shivering, his hands and feet frosting.

He’s dragged out of the memory by hiccuping breaths—the sound of Flint crying. He sits up a little, lets the blanket drop to his shoulders. He watches the back of Flint’s shoulders shake.

“Captain?” he tries. Flint turns statue-still.

Silver doesn’t know what to say. He wants not to be cold. He wants not to have to drink human blood. He’s never felt bad about it his whole life, but holding that flask that Flint brought him and not knowing whose life it spilled from made him feel nauseous. He almost sacrificed himself for his crew, and he can’t stand the thought of anyone else dying for him right now. He doesn’t know what he’s becoming. It’s worse than returning from the dead; it’s worse than thirsting for human blood. He’s always been what he was made to be, but now he’s fighting to be something else.

These are all the things whirling in his mind, but he can say none of them.

He thinks of Miranda’s moon-weary face, the way Flint had looked at her when she was on board with him, like she was everything necessary to him. “Is it true she was your witch?” The question tumbles from his mouth before he can catch himself; it’s silly—no witch made Silver this way, not that he knew of. Why should a witch have made Flint what he is?

But Flint doesn’t scoff. He considers the question in silence, and then he says, “No. I was her wolf.”

Silver wants to pull the blanket over his head again, so it can dry the tears that well up anew. But he forces himself to keep looking at the quiet slopes of Flint’s shoulders.

“I couldn’t do anything when she was shot,” Flint says, softly. “It was so sudden, and she was— She was _dead_ , and I couldn’t do anything.”

That’s something Silver can understand, but then Flint adds, “I was her wolf. She was dead, and for a moment I forgot— I forgot how to be a wolf.”

Silver doesn’t think he’s known anything deep enough to match what Flint is feeling right now. It is deeper than helplessness; it is deeper, even, than death.

He doesn’t want to know it.

VIII.

They’re in the Doldrums, and there’s nothing for anyone. Nothing, nothing. During the few months they spent in Nassau, Silver had started drinking animal blood instead of human blood. It had made him faint and his muscles hollow, and it hadn’t helped his recovery one bit. Still, he’d stuck to it.

But now, there are no animals except for eels, and there are no other humans around except for the _Walrus_ crew.

In a shadowed corner of the ship, Silver comes across Collings, who is so close to death that Silver would think him dead were he not so sensitive to the music of human pulses. He sits down next to Collings for a while. His stomach gnaws.

He thinks about the taste of Muldoon’s blood, dull and ashen. He’d been so torn, whether or not to drink Muldoon’s blood and kill him himself, but he couldn’t watch a friend struggle and drown. He couldn’t.

He’d made it quick. He hopes it had been painless for Muldoon, because it had been fucking awful for him, those seconds of plunging his fangs into Muldoon’s shoulder and gulping.

In the end, he sits there beside Collings for an hour, waiting until he can’t hear even the smallest heartbeat before drinking. The blood of someone already dead—someone starved to death at that—is not nearly as good as the blood of someone who’s still alive, but it’s better than nothing.

Flint shoots two of the crew who each accuse the other of stealing rations, and looking at Flint’s gaunt, pale face, Silver can’t even bring himself to feed on corpses anymore.

They’re all suffering. All of them. He must suffer with everyone else.

IX.

Silver can’t stop admiring how soft Flint looks in the milky light of this day—soft as a splash of sea-foam. He is barely listening to what Flint is saying; his ears are paying attention to the vital rhythm of Flint’s heart. Still beating, beating.

“Thank you for opening that door,” Flint says. Silver hears it.

It’s been a long cold hungry night, and Silver’s listening to Flint’s heart, but he isn’t even thinking about blood.

All right, maybe he thinks about blood a little. He _is_ a vampire. He’s always thinking about blood.

They’re led to more luxurious accommodation than cages. Silver watches Flint enter a hut, and he hesitates. Then he follows Flint, closing the door behind him.

Flint is already in a heap on the floor. A peaceful mountain of fur.

“Your leg,” Flint says, his voice like great trees being felled. “It doesn’t smell healthy.”

Silver snorts. “It doesn’t _feel_ healthy.”

Flint levels his piercing green eyes at Silver. “If you wouldn’t let me die,” he says, “I won’t let you die either.” Then: “ _Can_ you die?”

“I don’t actually know,” Silver confesses. “There’s only one way to find out, and I’d rather not.”

“Have you died before?” Flint asks. Honestly, he could crush rocks with that voice.

Silver doesn’t answer.

“We both need sleep,” Flint decides. He rolls fleetingly onto his side, stretching and showing the pale sunrise of his underbelly, and then he’s prone again. His tail thumps against the floor, impatient.

Silver takes that as an invitation. He gingerly sits down next to Flint, steadying himself with a hand on the bed as he does, and he lays his head down on Flint’s back. There’s a rug beneath them; it isn’t as good as the bed, but it’s far better than the cage. Besides, when he turns his head to the side, he can feel Flint’s plush, plentiful fur against his cheek, and he can hear the melodic, melancholic pound of Flint’s bestial heart.

He wouldn’t swap this for the kingliest bed in the world.

X.

“What do you need?” Madi asks him, and he thinks _Flint, Flint, Flint_.

He doesn’t know whether he can be honest with Madi, but he’s already started rambling about Flint. He may as well. When he’d first seen her, he hadn’t had enough to eat in so long, he kept thinking about the loveliness of her neck. And now it’s a few more days past, and he still hasn’t been able to feed. His leg feels as if some _other_ damned creature is feeding on it continuously. Good for that creature. What Silver wouldn’t give to be able to sink his fangs into someone right now.

He doesn’t know how much longer he can hold on. He can feel the horrible wet tracks of tears on his face. He’s _not_ going to kill Madi. He looks at the gentleness in her eyes and he sees the kind of dignity he only wishes he had.

“You keep animals, don’t you? Goats?” Even to his own ears, the sound of his voice is smeared with pain, like thin glue paste. 

“Yes,” Madi replies, the frown on her face drawing tighter. “Why?”

“Bring me a goat. _Please_.”

Madi gives the order, and she sits by Silver’s bed until the goat is fetched.

“You should leave,” Silver says to her, staring at the goat, because he can’t look at her.

Madi tells everyone else to vacate the room, but she stays. “Whatever it is you must do, I do not wish for you to be alone,” she murmurs.

Silver’s breath hitches into a sob. “You shouldn’t watch,” he says, but he can’t stand to delay another moment. He sits up, leaning over the side of the bed, and he coaxes the goat towards him.

He drinks every last drop. When he’s done, when the goat’s bloodless body sags to the floor, he finally has the strength to look at Madi again. She’s still there. Her face is slack with shock, but she’s still there.

“I’m sorry,” Silver says. “If I knew of any other way…” He doesn’t say, _This is_ already _the other way. The original way would have been you._ The world is a place of unending horrors, and he is one of them. He doesn’t want to present himself as any more of one than he absolutely has to.

Madi’s hand is shaking. She nods. “I see,” she says. She seems to understand what Silver has not said. “I was always taught that as a queen, there are problems I must do my utmost to solve, and there are problems I must learn I cannot solve. And then there are the things that are dressed in the same costume as problems, but are not problems at all, and I must not solve them.”

“What are you saying?” Silver asks. His voice is less frail now, but God, he wishes he could have human blood.

“If you aren’t hurting anybody, then—”

Silver laughs, raspy and bitter. “I’m not hurting anybody _now_.”

Madi meets his gaze without flinching. He knows his fangs are still out, and there’s blood in his beard. “You are a king,” she says. “You have done all that a king should, and can, do.”

She puts her small hand over his cold, clenched fist. She prises his fingers open, and presses a cloth into his palm.

He wipes his mouth.

XI.

Silver brings his iron leg down—again, _again_ —and with each impact, he relives the axe splintering his bone.

Dufresne’s blood splatters Silver’s face. It smells cloying. The mess that used to be Dufresne’s skull gleams on the floor of the tavern, red as jam. Silver thinks briefly of Singleton, of the blood that coated Flint’s face afterwards, and he flicks his tongue out to taste some of the blood on his lips.

Later, when people talk about what happened, they say Silver seemed undead—that Flint had sent Silver as his messenger because they are knitted of the same magic. They say Silver had fangs in his mouth and hellfire in his eyes.

Silver only recalls how difficult it had been to restrain himself from kneeling down right there in the tavern and drinking all of Dufresne’s blood, from eating the jam-red mush he’d made.

He sits on the table as Dr Howell tends to him; Flint comes in and asks him how he’s feeling. Silver wants to laugh. His stump hurts like hellfire, is how.

When Dr Howell disappears from the room, Silver says, “I’m _starving_.”

He looks up at Flint and licks his lips. He reaches up, a hand curling around the back of Flint’s neck, and Flint’s pulse sings through him. He isn’t sure whether he’s the one who urges Flint down, or whether Flint is already leaning to meet him. Their mouths press together, sticky and eager, a sensation that twines as low in his belly as bloodlust, and Silver has to will his fangs away.

“I heard someone say we were formed of the same evil spirit,” Flint groans as Silver tugs on his cock.

And Silver says, remembering how something in the deepest fathom of his soul had echoed Flint keenly and resounded, the first time he met the wolf among the Wrecks, “They don’t have a _clue_.”

XII.

The battle is so close now, Silver can feel its nearness smothering him like dirt upon a grave. He sits in the dark with Flint. Neither of them need any light to see by.

He asks for Flint’s story, and Flint gives it. He tells Silver about Thomas Hamilton, and Silver wants to ask, _What did his blood smell like?_

“I know you think you’re useless,” Flint says, at the conclusion of his tale. “But I’ve never been much use either where it’s mattered. What use is a wolf against a country, a system? But men working together, with their minds and hearts and hands— _that_ is what changes the world.”

“That doesn’t save anybody either,” Silver says. “People still die that you care about.”

“That’s not the same as not saving anybody,” Flint says. “You cannot save everyone you care about, but you can try and save more people than that.”

“But you haven’t been able to save _anyone_ you cared about,” Silver says, and Flint reels back like he’s been punched. Silver’s voice is raised now: “You cared about three people and they’ve all died. Don’t you see where this is going?”

“You’re concerned that you’ll die, too, because of me,” Flint says, his mouth twisting—a stranger would think it was a sneer of contempt, but Silver knows better.

“No,” Silver says, exhaling shakily. “I’m worried about you. I’ve always been worried about you. Surely you can tell by now.”

“What do you mean?”

“If we’re formed of the same evil spirit, as they say”—Flint snorts at this—“and if we are working together to remake the world, and if I care about you, then _I_ might just be the one who loses _you_.”

Flint considers this silently, rubbing his beard.

“Anyway, I’ve already died, once,” Silver says, enfolding his voice in a layer of linen lightness. “So I think the scales are tipped in my favour.”

“So you did die,” Flint murmurs. “Do you know—do you wonder why you were resurrected? Or how?”

Silver can detect the hope woven into Flint’s voice like a gilded thread. Maybe he thinks that there is a chance that Thomas or Miranda could come back from the dead, too. “There is no reason, no method that I can discern,” Silver says. “I’ve long ago stopped believing that there was any _sense_ to it.” _To any of it. To the whole of my existence._

Flint’s gaze lowers to the forest floor. “You must know I’m afraid of losing you too,” he says. “You must know that.”

“I do,” Silver says. “I know, Captain.” 

“You’ve not been as strong as you can be ever since you started drinking animal blood,” Flint says. “You need to eat better.” He looks up at Silver again, his lips quirked in a soft smile.

“There’s nobody here that I can kill,” Silver says, responding with just the crackling edge of a smile. “Haven’t you noticed that we’re on a island with nobody but a handful of pirates and a tiny community of Maroons and everybody knows everybody else?”

Flint’s smile slips off his face as his expression smooths into something more solemn. “Have you ever drunk someone’s blood without killing them?”

Silver closes his eyes, but the memories assail him all the same. “I tried when I was younger,” he says. “But never with any success. I couldn’t control it. You’ve seen what happens when I get my teeth in someone. My… victim loses consciousness instantly. I drink, and I try to stop before it’s too late—but they never wake up again.”

“You could try again,” Flint says, “on me.”

“No,” Silver says, immediately, without thought. “No, absolutely not.”

“I heal faster when I’m a wolf,” Flint says.

“And I need _human_ blood,” Silver says, feebly. “What makes you think your wolf blood will help me?”

“I can feel it in my marrow, Silver,” Flint says, his voice dropping to an urgent, earnest hush. “When I see your fangs, I know them. I recognise them. I feel an answer to them within me.”

Silver swallows. His tongue is thick and clumsy, and the tips of his fangs are pricking into his lips. “I’ve never been able to control it.”

“You didn’t have all the experience that you do now,” Flint whispers. “I trust you.”

Silver’s stomach squeezes. He has always been so hungry around Flint. And when Flint’s human shape shimmers into a radiance of fur, the same way the sun emerges from behind clouds and pours its gold over all the land, Silver is touched by that gold, and he wants to drink his fill.

They were already sitting close, and now Silver can feel Flint’s breath on his face.

Silver embraces Flint, and kisses Flint’s neck.

His mouth is full of fur, but he doesn’t mind, not when Flint’s blood tastes like tea with a spoonful of honey stirred into it. Silver has never tasted blood like this, a flavour so delicate and fragrant. He is attuned to Flint’s heartbeat; he listens to it carefully as he drinks. But Flint’s blood is so delicious, and Flint’s fur feels so good in his arms, that it’s hard to concentrate on anything except sucking more and more from Flint’s veins.

He stops, though, when he realises that Flint’s heartbeat is getting fainter. He stops, detaching his fangs from Flint’s throat. And Flint doesn’t _move_.

Silver feels sick, his stomach heaving—but if he threw up, it would be Flint’s blood that comes out of him, and that thought just makes his stomach want to upend itself even more.

Then Flint’s tongue laps at his cheek; one long, fond lick chased by a generous and enthusiastic multitude of licks, all over Silver’s face—his nose, his ear, his mouth—as Flint cleans the remainder of his own blood from Silver. Silver laughs and Flint rears up and pushes Silver down onto his back with his front paws. Flint is so heavy, such a colossal bundle of fur pressing down upon Silver, panting hot against Silver’s neck, and Silver shudders, grasping handfuls of Flint’s fur just as he would clutch at Flint’s shirt whenever they kissed. The inside of his mouth still tastes of Flint’s blood, and his head is roaring with the drum of Flint’s bounding heart.

“Fuck me,” he says, the words skipping out of his mouth before he even knows it’s what he wants.

Flint stops. His eyes are wide discs of weathered copper. “As I am now?” he asks. The question quivers deep into Silver’s bones.

“As you are now,” Silver confirms. His mouth is dry now, and he wants so desperately to wet it with Flint’s blood again.

“I’m a wolf,” Flint says. “Once I’m inside you, I can’t— I have to stay inside you until I’m done.”

Silver whimpers with pleasure at the thought, his hands scrabbling in Flint’s fur; did Flint think that was going to deter him?

“Are you certain?” Flint’s voice could crumble cliffs. What defence does Silver have against it? His whole body thrums with it.

“Yes,” Silver says. “Yes, please, Captain.”

Flint sits back on his haunches, and Silver fumbles with the buttons on his shirt and unstraps his false leg, peels off his trousers. And he’s shoved down again by Flint’s paws, and Flint resumes licking him with that lavish velvet tongue, and _God_ , just the sheer weight of Flint on top of him is unbearable magic that could kill Silver and bring him back to life a thousand times over.

Flint’s tongue traverses down, down, and Silver is so hard he almost jumps when Flint nuzzles his cock. Flint’s sloppy licks are fierce and persistent and everywhere, and Silver spreads his thighs and opens for him.

He’s soon dripping wet, squirming and gasping and _ravening_ , and Flint just keeps going, keeps licking him more and more, until he’s open and loose and yielding, until he wishes he had claws so he could dig them into Flint’s back and demand to be fucked.

Flint at last climbs over him again, an undeniable weight holding him down, and at _last_ sinks into him, the same way he sank his fangs into Flint earlier, and Silver thinks he’s learning the meaning of reciprocity for the very first time. Christ, Flint is enormous, all of him, and so overwhelming in every way.

And then Flint is all the way inside him, and Silver cries out, his right leg tightening around Flint’s flank—he has to prevent himself from biting into Flint again, because Flint has swollen even bigger inside him, and _Jesus_. Jesus.

Flint licks Silver’s face anxiously, and Silver breathes, “I’m all right. Holy shit, Flint. I had no idea it would feel like this.”

“Good?” The wolf’s voice was intense before, but now it’s a storm that thunders through Silver from within, and Silver blinks away tears from his eyes.

“It’s _amazing_.”

Flint moves, grinding into Silver, and Silver moans, frantic and adoring, gripping a fistful of fur at Flint’s nape, “Shit— Yes, fuck me, please, Captain!” 

He loves it. Loves the way the shape of Flint’s cock catches roughly inside him, causing the most unbelievable sparks of pleasure. Loves the deep, aching stretch of it; loves how complete he feels, as if he had never been truly himself until now.

It’s all incredible: Flint’s toothy, animal grin, slicing right into the core of Silver; Flint’s luminous green eyes, lighting through Silver’s veins with their heady venom; Flint’s loving, ardent tongue, bathing Silver in joyful kisses.

He could stay like this forever, shrouded in Flint’s copious fur, pinned down by Flint’s solid weight, joined to Flint impossibly and inextricably, held open by the breathtaking, unrelenting fullness of Flint’s cock.

When Flint fills him up and encloses him in a cocoon of satin fur, he feels safe. Silver has never been warm a day in his life, but now, when Flint fucks him in slow, rocking thrusts, there is this. This _burning_. This bright hearth, with the crack and snap of firewood. He had only ever known what it was to be cold, to be always within death’s grasp. But now, Flint whines and keens, each noise calling to a moon that seems to live deep within Silver, and Silver understands, as he has never before, what it is to be deathless.

XIII.

Flint rises from the sea, his fur a dull, sodden red; he runs up the beach, and Silver squawks and shields himself with his arms as Flint shakes himself dry and showers Silver with water droplets in the process.

They’ve just had a full day of training on the cliff, and Flint wanted to go for a swim, but Silver still hates the sea. He doesn’t mind watching Flint swim, though. In both wolf and human form, Flint swimming is a worthy sight.

He always pretends to hate this part, where he’s rained in drops of the ocean, courtesy of the wolf.

Flint lays his wet muzzle in Silver’s lap and Silver scratches Flint’s cheek, pets the fur behind Flint’s ears, and Flint sighs before he morphs back into his human form.

“Not long now till we sail into Nassau,” Flint says, still lying with his head on Silver’s lap, and Silver still strokes his fuzzy scalp.

To Silver, it seems like the battle here on the Maroon Island was only days ago. Only days ago did he gorge himself on the blood of so many redcoats who lay moaning; only days ago did the miasma of death hang over this island, and now they’re about to bring it to another island.

It makes him quiet, unwilling to speak.

“You can ride me into battle,” Flint says, “into victory.”

Silver splutters, his hand ceasing its idle motion over Flint’s shaved hair. “Sorry. Did you just say I can _ride_ you into battle?”

“Yeah,” Flint says, as if it’s obvious, his voice always crisp and sweet as an apple on that one-syllable word. He looks up at Silver with his brimming seawater eyes. “I am your wolf now.”

**Author's Note:**

> Title from 'Eavesdrop' by The Civil Wars.
> 
> I said to Sam before I started writing this that I wanted to write something "very porny". I ended up with....... this. Which is not "very porny" by any measure. Oops!! I guess I had way more feelings about Silver and Flint than I realised!! WHAT ELSE IS NEW.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this somewhat unusual venture for me! Comments are much appreciated! <3 Please find me on [tumblr](http://reluming.tumblr.com/) where I'm still tormented by these sad pirates.


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